


Call Out My Name

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brothels, Daenerys and Jon are both whores, Dirty Talk, Dom Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Choking, Minor Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Rootless and penniless, all Daenerys has is her name – practically a death sentence this side of the Narrow Sea. So while she silently plots to win back her family’s throne, she’s forced into a Kings Landing brothel to make ends meet.It’s not a customer who becomes responsible for her sexual awakening, but a fellow whore – the dark and charming bastard Jon Snow.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 32
Kudos: 336





	Call Out My Name

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite filthy guys, I have no excuse. There are mentions of Jon & Dany with other people just through the nature of the profession but nothing explicit. _Both _of them are whores. I've made that very clear so please don't read if that bothers you and pleeease don’t come at me like I’m anti-Dany 🤦🏼♀️ As always, unbeta'd so excuse any mistakes. Enjoy!__

Since she was a little girl, Daenerys knew she was special.

She was raised on stories of mythical beasts and ancestors drunk on power. She grew into a beauty, grew into the features that made her family famous, blood of old Valyria, of the dragons and the gods.

She was a _Targaryen—_ she always would be. While all else would waiver and rot and fall to dust, _that_ would remain. It was what she held onto through the cold and lonely nights, what she comforted herself with when Viserys hit her and screamed at her and told her she was nothing.

When he sold her, that was when she knew it had to end.

She still remembered how she’d trembled when Khal Drogo sat before her, mounted atop his magnificent horse. He had a stern face framed by a dark beard, his chest massive and decorated with black ink. The length of his braid verified his ferocity and his deathly blank expression made him more frightening still.

 _“One of the finest killers alive,”_ her brother had crooned in her ear like it was something to be proud of, _“and you will be his wife.”_

 _I won’t_ , she thought. _I would rather die._

She nearly did. For three moons, she suffered at the hands of her savage husband. He was as brutal as she’d feared, merciless in his killings by day and his assaults on her body by night. She prayed for it to end—for someone to come for her, for her brother to die, for her husband to die, just so they couldn’t put their hands on her ever again.

The loss of her virginity had been something painful and sad; not only for the bodily aspect of it, the bruises and blood, but the fact that she would never get it back. It was a memory forever tainted and she hated him for it and she feared his seed taking root the most.

If she gave him a son, she would be truly trapped.

So one day, when she noticed a spot of moonblood after weeks without, a cold wave of relief made her bold. 

She ran.

She slipped away in the night, leaving behind the eastern continent beyond the Narrow Sea and heading to Westeros. She braved perilous winds and seas, fire and ice, and found herself on the shores of Dragonstone. She held the sand between her fingers and felt the ghosts of ancestors past—her home and yet so foreign to her.

She had been exhausted, physically and emotionally drained, and she could have laid down and died.

But then she remembered the strength she carried inside her, how she had come kicking and screaming into the world against the backdrop of raging winter gales.

They called her Stormborn too.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys knew she could be impulsive.

She hadn’t really thought it through when she ran away from Drogo, from Viserys. She hadn’t considered that they would come after her, that they would try to find her and make her pay. She hadn’t considered that she would need money and food and, most of all, an _occupation_ when she arrived in Westeros. She hadn’t considered that she would need warmth and a place to stay and probably friends, people to look out for her.

Mostly, she hadn’t considered that Robert Baratheon still ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

She had allowed herself to forget his deep rooted hatred for her family, the concept floating away like the rubies that had shattered free from her brother’s armour the moment he put his war hammer to it.

She came to realise the name that meant so much to her was a death sentence this side of the Narrow Sea.

She was fortunate that no-one knew who she was, no-one knew what she looked like. She was just a rumour, a myth, the whisper of a babe born in the wind. She kept a low profile, painted her famous hair dark, and found herself embroiled in the oldest profession in the world.

Petyr Baelish had a snake-like grin that made her nervous. He always had a knowing glint to his eye and a curve to his mouth and sometimes he twirled a strand of her hair around his finger and hummed, like he knew who she really was.

But he found her and let her stay and she tried to make the most of it.

At least she was free, more or less. It was a high end establishment, for what it was worth, frequented by lords and ladies and knights who didn’t take their vows too seriously. Baelish had found her dirty and starving on the back streets of Kings Landing and promised her an honest living.

 _Honest_ , it made her laugh _,_ but she had to admit she never went hungry, the whores had each other’s backs, and her true identity was easily hidden.

After-all, brothels were made for secrets.  
  


* * *

  
Two weeks went by before Daenerys was told of her first customer.

Baelish had given her time to adjust, to acclimatise, but it appeared his patience had run out. 

“I’m giving you to a wealthy man from Dorne,” he told her. His voice was gentle and soft but it still made her uncomfortable, made her bristle. She flinched when he touched her hair, giving it a little tug. “His name is Oberyn and he is very kind. He will be good to you.”

She had heard things about Dorne.

She had heard they were a fiery and passionate people, the most relaxed of the Seven Kingdoms in their views on sexual morality. Their home was sunny and warm; even the castle was ruled from a capital called Sunspear. Perhaps this Oberyn would remind her of what she’d loved about Pentos, the white sand beaches and the clear blue water that shimmered like sapphire jewels.

Perhaps Baelish was right and he would be kind but _still_ —she was nervous.

And the other whores knew it.

“You’re as pale as a sheet, little one,” a redhead named Ros laughed as they sat around one afternoon, “surely you can’t be so frightened?”

Daenerys scowled, settling further into the red futon like she could blend into it and disappear.

“Ignore her, Dany,” one of the kinder male whores—a northerner called Robb—smiled his friendly smile, “everyone’s first time is hard.”

“If you’re lucky,” Ros grinned salaciously and made a lewd gesture with her hands.

Daenerys’ cheeks burned the colour of the furniture.

Before she could think to reply, a heavy curtain drew back and two figures emerged. The woman was older than her but attractive nonetheless, another redhead with a slender figure. She was practically panting and she wore a dazed, blissed out expression.

Daenerys didn’t recognise her but she recognised the man.

_Jon Snow._

His chest was bare and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. He gave the breathless woman a lopsided grin as she moaned and pulled him in for a final kiss. He seemed uncaring of the fact that he had an audience, that his breeches were still unlaced and hanging low on his hips.

He looped an arm around her waist and kissed her back with what looked like a remarkable amount of skill.

 _He has such a pretty mouth_ , Daenerys thought absently—but then, that was what he was known for.

Jon Snow was one of the most sought after whores this side of the Twins. Tales of his good looks, of his dark hair and thick beard and warrior’s physique, could be heard from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne. When the woman pulled back, Daenerys saw her shudder.

His mouth was red, his curls wild and messy from the activities that had clearly gone on behind that curtain, and Daenerys found herself intrigued.

But then—everything about Jon Snow intrigued her. It had been that way from the day they met.

_“Dany?” the two syllables sounded downright sinful wrapped around his tongue, a rough northern burr, “what’s it short for?”_

_She straightened her back, her eyes drifting over him, sizing him up._

_She avoided the question because she had to bury Daenerys Targaryen, leave her behind and become someone else for a little while._

_“What’s Jon short for?”_

_His mouth twitched, curling under his beard. His head tipped to the side like he was relenting._

_“Nothing. Just boring old Jon Snow,” he teased her, “bastard from the north.”_

_She had never heard this word._

_“Bastard,” her brows furrowed, “what does it mean?”_

_A brief flicker of surprise flashed over his dark features._

_“It means my mother and father weren’t married. Bastards in the north are called Snow. It means I don’t have a name.”_

_She felt strangely connected to him in that way, her dragon’s blood muted and turned to ash._

_She gave a gentle smile and said, “I don’t have a name either.”_

The redhead looked reluctant to let go of him, her cheeks rosy and flushed with the pleasure he’d clearly given her.

He finally stood back, keeping her at arm’s length, polite but obvious.

He took her hand, arching a brow as he brought it to his mouth.

“Come see me anytime, Melisandre,” he purred before placing a kiss on the back of it.

The woman practically swooned.

When she had gone, he turned to them and rolled his eyes at Robb’s hearty laugh.

“Another satisfied customer?” he asked, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. He plucked at a grape before tossing it into his mouth.

Baelish attempted to make the brothel a “refined” establishment. It was richly furnished with fine tapestries, curtains and artwork. He sought to cater to every taste, male and female prostitutes to provide pleasure to men or women, if the customer was so inclined.

If a woman wanted fun and adventure, they went to Robb. He had an easy way about him and Daenerys always heard giggles from the rooms he entertained in. There was Ros of course, who oversaw the brothel as majordomo when Littlefinger was away. There was Mirelle and Genna and Kayla, a cortortionist who could perform a Meereenese Knot. The men often went to Olyvar, a blonde who preferred them anyway, and Daenerys found herself slipping into the role of mysterious foreigner. Until her, the only exoticism came from Armeca who pretended not to understand the Common Tongue, but in truth was from the slum district of Flea Bottom in Kings Landing itself.

Then there was Jon.

When she sat in the common rooms, sipping rich wine, she often heard him _entertaining._

Only the women didn’t laugh like they laughed with Robb.

They _screamed—_ and not in the way that turned her stomach, when a customer would occasionally get too carried away. 

There was the blonde who sobbed when she came. There was the brunette who mewled like a kitten. There was the redhead who wailed and then went deathly silent. Later, Daenerys would listen with wide eyes as Jon shrugged that she’d fainted and Robb howled with laughter. 

He was normally quiet but sometimes—if he was truly aroused, Daenerys assumed, or if he liked the girl—she’d hear his deep grunt, a thick growl like a wolf.

It always made her shudder.

There was an unspoken rule about the whores fucking each other but sometimes— _only sometimes_ —she allowed her mind to wander. She allowed herself to fantasise what those talented hands would feel like on her, touching her in the dark where no-one could see, what pretty noises he would coax from her mouth.

“Why _are_ you so popular?” she asked dryly as he sat down next to Robb, not bothering to lace his breeches.

He gave a nod of thanks as the other man passed him a cup of wine.

As he took a sip, Ros answered for him.

“It’s because of that _thing_ he does with his tongue,” she drawled, her permanently lust-filled eyes dancing over him.

“I do that too,” Robb grumbled.

Ros laughed, a small musical sound.

“Not like him.”

Jon smirked, settling back in his chair. Even from across the room, she could see the darkness of his eyes—cool, unaffected steel. As Robb and Ros talked about him, he looked almost bored. He always held himself with a devil-may-care attitude that bordered on the dangerous and Daenerys found it frustratingly, annoyingly, _unbearably_ fascinating.

“What thing?” she asked suddenly, the words just registering.

Three sets of eyes flew to her.

“You’re joking, right?” Robb said eventually, his voice deadpan.

She shifted.

“No?”

Ros erupted into a laugh.

“Oh that’s perfect,” she clapped her hands, “Littlefinger expects her to entertain _Oberyn Martell_ and yet she’s as innocent as a babe.”

Jon’s expression seemed to shift and change, turning darker.

“He’s giving her to Oberyn?” he asked, his brows pulling into a frown, “don’t you think that’s a little… _much_ for her first time?” 

They started to discuss it and Daenerys felt her blood begin to boil.

“I’m right here, you know,” she scowled, irritated at how they were pretending she wasn’t even in the room.

They ignored her.

“Ellaria won’t be with him,” Robb was saying, “and Oberyn’s a good guy. Experienced, sympathetic... he’ll treat her well.”

“She doesn’t even know the Lord’s Kiss,” Jon said flatly, arching an unimpressed brow.

She blushed at her inexperience, her temper flaring under her skin again.

Humiliation made her bold.

“Just tell me what it means,” she demanded.

Jon’s dark eyes flickered over her.

“It means I like to lick their cunts,” he said bluntly.

She blushed for an entirely different reason, heat strangling her throat. A shudder shot down her spine, settling into an ache that throbbed between her thighs.

Robb and Ros laughed—but Daenerys didn’t find it funny at all.  
  


* * *

  
“You know what I expect,” Littlefinger crooned. His hand was clasped on Robb’s shoulder and Daenerys could recognise a threat when she saw one. “even the most tight-lipped of us let things slip in the heat of the moment.”

Robb sighed, shrugging out of the man’s grasp.

“Aye, I understand,” he said dryly, “you want me to coax out Lady Margaery’s secrets with my cock.”

Baelish’s mouth curved but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“I don’t care _how_ you do it,” his voice dropped a sinister tone, “just do it.”

Then he was leading a beautiful brunette into the common room and leaving her in Robb’s capable hands.

Robb kissed the back of her hand, his blue eyes sparkling.

“How I’ve longed to see you again,” he drawled, far too suave for an icy northerner. He spoke such pretty, flowery words… if it weren’t for his pale skin and deep, thick accent, Daenerys would mistake him for a perfumed lord of the south.

 _Lady Margaery_ , Daenerys assumed, smiled cheekily.

“I’m sure I’ve longed for you more…” she hummed. She touched a hand to his bearded cheek while the other brazenly cupped his crotch, “…you and your pretty cock.”

Robb’s face broke into a blinding smile, utterly delighted by her fire.

Daenerys felt her cheeks blossoming into heat as she averted her gaze. It felt like a private moment but Jon was there too and she felt his gaze on her like a burn. When she glanced up, she saw him looking at her. He was unapologetic about it, his eyes narrowed like he was trying to work her out. Eventually, something sparked through them, as though he’d had an idea, and he stood up and walked over to Robb.

As Lady Margaery waited, her hood pulled over her eyes to award discretion, the two men spoke in hushed tones.

Daenerys watched as Jon murmured something and Robb pulled back, his brow arched in cool surprise.

Robb’s eyes caught on her for a beat before they dragged to Margaery. He tugged her to him with a hand wrapped around the crook of her elbow before he whispered in her ear.

Margaery’s eyes widened before they seemed to darken, her pupils dilating. She rolled her bottom lip between her white teeth as her eyes settled on Daenerys.

Then, she nodded.

Jon turned and extended a hand to Daenerys.

“Come,” he ordered simply, beckoning her to him.

She quirked a brow, leaning back on the futon instead.

“Where?” she asked.

Jon’s mouth tipped into an easy smirk as his dark eyes travelled the length of her.

“We’re going to watch.”  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys didn’t know why she agreed to it.

If she was honest, she was intrigued and a little aroused and it was hard to say _no_ to Jon Snow when he looked at you like that.

His hand was warm in hers as they followed the couple into an extravagantly decorated room.

As Robb and Margaery moved to the centre of the room, Jon held Daenerys back.

His fingers were wrapped gently around her wrist and his hands were cold but his touch still burned.

It was a heady, intoxicating feeling.

She glanced up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

He didn’t give her an answer. Instead, his hands went to her shoulders and he gently turned her around so she was facing the couple. There was a heavy curtain between them, separating two rooms, and Daenerys found herself watching through the gap. Her left hand came up to grip the material, needing something to hold onto, to keep her grounded.

“He looks like he cares,” she whispered when she noticed Robb’s awe-filled expression. It interested her, intrigued her—she couldn’t imagine this ever being anything more than a job.

Jon hummed behind her, his fingers casually tracing down her spine. Goosebumps rose under the surface of her skin, the air white hot and thin between them.

“Aye, Margaery’s a little more than your regular customer,” he told her, “her father has betrothed her to Prince Joffrey, a nasty cunt if the rumours are to be believed. She doesn’t want to be a timid little wife. She wants adventure—and you know that’s what Robb will give her. They call her the rose of Highgarden, yet she’s less of a delicate flower than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Daenerys listened intently, taking it all in. It made sense now, Littlefinger’s interest in her. He liked to spy on his more powerful patrons in their most intimate moments, weave his little webs and gather information. If she was to be queen one day, Margaery was very powerful indeed—but Robb didn’t seem like the type to betray her.

She also registered how much she liked it when Jon said _cunt…_ but she tried not to dwell on that.

As Robb lifted the hood of Margaery’s cloak, she felt Jon's heat behind her.

It made the air pulse around them, the hairs on the back of her neck and arms standing on end.

Robb removed the garment completely, leaving her in a beautiful emerald gown. He leaned in to whisper something in her ear, so close Daenerys could only see the curve of his jaw, the contrast of his auburn beard against pale skin.

“He’s telling her how beautiful she is,” Jon murmured, his voice warm and husky in her own ear, “clients like to be flattered.”

She fought a shudder as she watched Robb slowly untie the laces of her gown, letting it pool to the floor and leaving her bare. Daenerys’ eyes flickered over the other woman’s body—over soft white curves, rosy nipples sitting high on supple breasts, down a taut stomach until they settled on the patch of light hair at the apex of her thighs.

“She _is_ beautiful,” she breathed because she _was._ More than that, she held herself with a brazen confidence that made Daenerys jealous.

Jon hummed, brushing her hair to one side until it lay draped over her shoulder. 

“As are you.”

Daenerys’ lips twitched into a smile, her head tipping to the side slightly as he stepped closer still.

“I’m not a client.”

“It’s not flattery.”

His responses were rapid fire, a push and pull between them. He said it like it was merely a fact, not meant to sweet-talk or persuade. He wasn’t a perfumed southerner either.

Margaery was unlacing Robb’s breeches now and her fingers were sure and steady. They didn’t tremble, not even as he stepped out of them and his hard cock sprung free.

Finally, he leaned in and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

It was slow, like they had all the time in the world, like they were lovers who cared for each other rather than embroiled in a business transaction. It confused Daenerys and she found herself jittery and impatient. 

Jon must have noticed because he chuckled behind her.

“You’ve never been treated that way, I assume?” he asked and she shook her head, “so many men just want to get the job done, half a dozen pumps and they’re finished. But there’s so much pleasure in anticipation.”

As he spoke, he ran the backs of his fingers down the length of her arm until he reached her hand. There, he entwined their fingers and held their joined hands against her belly.

She fought the urge to shudder, her mouth growing dry.

“Why are you showing me this?” she whispered, “it’s my job to serve, is it not? Why should my pleasure matter?”

But it looked like _Robb’s_ pleasure mattered, as Margaery pulled his shirt over his head and left him naked. They were both beautiful, a stunning couple to behold, and Daenerys felt wetness begin to gather between her thighs. She felt aroused, excited, her skin on fire. 

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t,” Jon argued, his voice husky and low, “you do not have to be a passive thing; a pretty, exotic doll from across the Narrow Sea. You can own your pleasure, take what you want. There can even be pleasure in _serving_ … if you do it right.”

She couldn’t help but lean into him, both hands travelling to the arm he had slung over her waist.

“Like when you give the Lord’s Kiss?” she couldn’t help but ask—because she couldn’t understand how he could gain anything from that.

She felt the curve of his mouth against her hair.

“Aye,” his reply was a low rumble, “there’s little I like more than making a woman peak with my mouth.”

The dirty words sent a tremor through her, her breath catching in her throat.

“Why?” she pushed quietly as Robb and Margaery’s kisses became deeper, more frenzied.

She could see their tongues where they tangled, their mouths slanting over each other, and then Robb was picking her up and placing her down on the futon. He dropped to his knees on the floor in-front of her, his hands going to her thighs and spreading them. Neither of them looked at the spying couple but Robb was angling Margaery’s body so Daenerys had a clear view.

Jon’s fingers danced across her collarbone until they splayed over the hollow of her throat. He slid them up, tantalisingly slow, and then he was lightly gripping her neck. Heat shot straight between her thighs and with every little squeeze of her throat, she felt an answering pulse in her clit.

“I like the noises a woman makes,” Jon began to answer her question just as Robb’s mouth dipped between Margaery’s thighs, “each one so different. I like the way she might pull my hair or grip the sheets instead. I like how she might try and hold it back, or she might scream for everyone to hear. I like feeling how wet she is for me, how ready she is to take my cock, and I like the taste of her cunt.”

Daenerys’ breath caught on a moan, her head lolling back to rest on his shoulder.

Margaery’s moans pierced the heavy silence, punctuated by the lewd slurping sounds of Robb’s mouth. The heat between Daenerys’ legs became unbearable and she just wanted— _needed_ —Jon to touch her. As though he could read her mind, his nimble fingers tugged at the belt of her gown and he pushed it off her shoulders.

It fluttered silently to the floor, a satin veil between them, ripped away.

She was bare underneath—and too aroused to feel self-conscious. She was so wet, she could feel her thighs slipping when she rubbed them together to try and relieve the ache. Her head was still on Jon’s shoulder, her eyes screwed shut.

“You’re missing it,” he said quietly, his voice lined with amusement.

As though under a spell, her head tipped forward, her hazy eyes opening to watch the show.

Margaery’s back was arched, her tits thrust out, as her hands tangled in Robb’s curls. His tongue repeatedly flicked at her clit as he pushed one finger inside her.

As his tongue slid up and down her slit, Jon muttered something lowly into Daenerys’ hair.

“I bet you have the sweetest tasting cunt.”

She almost wanted to ask— _beg—_ for him to find out. But she didn’t want the moment to break and she didn’t know if that would be an overstep. She didn’t know what this was—only that she didn’t want it to stop.

 _Finally,_ as Robb stiffened his tongue and began to fuck Margaery with it, Jon’s fingers slipped between Daenerys’ thighs. She was wetter than she’d ever been; she could feel it glistening on her inner thighs.

Her hips bucked at the contact, rolling against his hand, as he circled her clit teasingly with the tip of one finger.

“Look how wet you are,” he praised, his voice dark and low, “how responsive… just like a proper whore.”

She groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head as he began to slide two fingers up and down her slit. She would be a proper whore, a good whore, she’d be _anything—_ as long as he kept touching her like that.

“You like it, don’t you?” he said roughly, inserting two fingers inside her while the other hand gently squeezed her throat, "watching him eat her pussy, the noises she makes? You see how close she is? I think you’d like to watch her get fucked too. Because you might look like the picture of innocence, but deep down, _Dany…_ you’re just like me.”

His voice had dropped to an impossibly low brogue, betraying his stoic, indifferent façade. She could feel the hard outline of his cock pressing into her arse, the evidence of how this was affecting him too. He started to fuck her with his fingers, the lewd sounds making her blush, and then he curled them inside her, stroking her inner walls and making her shake.

She nodded, her thighs trembling, and he clicked his tongue in reprimand.

“Use your words for me.”

“Yes, I like it,” she practically hissed, her voice hoarse, “so good— _gods,_ don’t stop…”

The thumb of his other hand rolled her bottom lip from between her teeth. He wanted to hear her. She hadn’t realised she was biting it and she tasted metal flood her tongue. His thumb slipped inside her mouth and she licked it eagerly.

“Fuck, yes, Dany, open your mouth, show me how you'd suck my cock.”

She obeyed like the slave she already was to him, one hand flying out to grip the curtain and the other covering her breast. She moaned, the sound muffled as she flicked her tongue around the digit. She pinched a nipple, rolling it between her fingers as the couple in-front of her began to build to a crescendo.

“Watch,” he murmured, the hand around her throat travelling up to her chin. He gripped it and forced her to look. “See how she’s trembling, how her toes are curling? She’s so close—I want you to come with her.”

She practically sobbed, a ball of scorching desire coiled tight in the pit of her stomach. She rolled her hips, grinding against his throbbing length, and she revelled at the heated grunt he let out.

“Gods, I’d like to fuck you,” he growled thickly.

She nodded rapidly, her head turning to look at him for the first time. Their mouths brushed as she did so, the heated contact making her draw back in fright.

His pupils were blown to black, as lost to desire as she was. For a moment, Margaery and Robb didn’t exist. There was only Jon. Only Jon and his dark eyes and pretty mouth and _fuck,_ she wanted to kiss him.

She leaned in and their mouths brushed, sliding hotly but not quite connecting. He grabbed her face and turned it away, forcing her to look at the couple again.

“Oberyn might have you,” he said then, his tone dark and tinged with something new, “but you’re going to come for me first.”

A violent shudder traced down her spine, her cunt on fire. She stared at the fervent couple in the room, her limbs starting to shake along with Margaery’s. Robb’s head was bobbing rapidly between her thighs now and she could hear him growling into her cunt, deep, husky sounds that she wondered if Jon made.

“She’s nearly there,” Jon whispered in her ear, his wet fingers slipping out of her so he could focus on her clit to bring her over the edge. His other hand kept squeezing her throat, applying a delicious pressure. “That’s it, watch what he does, how attentive he is. There’s something between them but even if there wasn’t… a good whore knows how to pretend and you’re whore now, Dany. Aren’t you? That’s right. We’ll fuck the princess out of you yet.”

Her eyes popped open, stunned. She was sure it was just a manner of speech, a reference to her perceived innocence, but still—it rattled her. He dropped his head to her neck, placing a kiss there. She could feel the grit of his beard as he laid kisses across the flushed skin, sucking on a point just below her ear. His hot tongue traced the mark he’d undoubtedly left behind.

“It’s happening,” his mouth at her ear brought her attention back to Margaery, whose limbs had pulled taut, and his talented fingers rubbed her clit faster, “ _look_ , she’s going to come, she’s—”

Margaery threw her head back, a desperate cry escaping her lips. Daenerys broke at the same time, her body arching into Jon’s as wave upon wave of unbearable pleasure crashed over her. He held her and rode her through it, whispering dirtily in her ear, telling her how beautiful she was, how he loved to watch her come, how he’d wanted her from the moment she’d arrived.

Her vision had whitened for one terrifying moment and she blinked back spots behind her eyes. The orgasm lingered in her blood, made her whole body feel warm and tingly. She was sure he could feel the frantic patter of her heart under his palm, beating wildly in her throat.

“Good girl,” he praised quietly, trailing his wet fingers up her sternum until they reached her mouth. He coaxed her lips open and she sucked them eagerly, tasting her cum. “You did very well.”

She shivered, her breath still caught in her throat.

Robb was standing, wiping the back of his wet mouth with his hand. He turned and looked straight at them, his mouth curving into a grin. Margaery leaned around him to look too, her smile lazy and her expression hazy with pleasure.

“Did you enjoy your first lesson, Dany?” Robb asked, his tone lined with amusement.

Daenerys nodded, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Margaery laughed, melodic and clear like a bell.

“You can stay and watch us fuck if you want,” she shrugged casually, as though she were talking about the weather.

Daenerys _did_ want. Her mouth practically watered at the suggestion. She leaned back against Jon and still felt him hard as a rock against her arse. He needed to come too. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to see what he looked like, the noises he made.

But then—

“Where’s Snow?” Petyr Baelish was barking, his steps loud as he searched for Jon. He clearly had a client for him, one who had probably asked for him specifically, and Daenerys burned with inexplicable jealousy.

She turned around and watched him take a step back, running a hand through his messy curls. Her eyes flickered down at the evidence of what she’d done to him, how another woman would reap the reward. She stared at the prominent bulge in his breeches almost mournfully.

Jon took her hand as Baelish kept snapping his orders.

“Enjoy,” he said with an amused quirk of his mouth, placing a kiss on the back of it, “next time, I’ll watch with you... or perhaps I'll fuck you myself.”  
  


* * *

  
He lived up to his promise.

The next time she saw him, her legs were over his shoulders.

Her eyes rolled back as he drove his cock into her, pushing her further up the bed with every powerful thrust. He had gathered her in his arms, sliding her ankles up to his neck to deepen and intensify the sensation. He panted open mouthed against her calf as his hard cock slid in and out of her.

She choked on a moan, her toes curling. He was so deep inside her, his pelvis grinding against her clit with every thrust.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” she groaned, her cunt clenching and fluttering around his length, “gods, that’s it—fuck, keep going…”

“Yeah?” he slammed into her, “like this?”

She sobbed, fisting the sheets until her knuckles turned white.

He growled and pushed her legs off his shoulders, bringing them around his waist instead. He pulled out all the way, until the head of his wet cock was kissing her clit, and then pushed back in to the hilt. He fucked her like that for a few moments, teasing and slow and shallow, until she whined and begged for more.

“How was it?” he asked suddenly, his brow quirking as his hips rolled, “with Oberyn?”

Her eyes popped open. She stared at him for a few breathless moments.

“You really want to know?”

His expression darkened, pupils blown to black.

“Aye, I want to know.”

She smirked but it melted into a moan when he ground his hips and pounded the perfect spot inside her.

 _Bastard,_ she thought wildly.

“It was good,” she breathed, “it was fine. It wasn’t this.”

She refused to elaborate anymore, to stroke his already absurdly inflated ego. Oberyn _had_ been kind and patient and he certainly had the skill that made Dornishmen famous lovers. But she had been ruined from the moment Jon put his hands on her, a northern accent the only one she wanted to hear as she broke apart.

“I’ve heard he’s very good,” Jon was humming, licking the pad of his thumb before he placed it between her legs, rubbing her clit, “I’ve fucked his paramour Ellaria, she was very good too.”

Daenerys practically bared her teeth, dragging her nails down his strong back and making him hiss. She squeezed him between her legs and used the strength in her thighs to flip them over.

He chuckled as she settled on top of him, his hands travelling to her hips.

“They might be from Dorne, but they’re not professionals,” she rasped, beginning to slide up and down his cock. She rode him like a horse, a dragon, arching her back and keeping him pinned down with her hands on his chest.

His dark eyes were focused on where they joined, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips.

“What have I created?”

She smirked, tipping her head forward to look at him. They had fucked a few times now, under the guise of something casual, but Daenerys was finding herself more and more enthralled by him.

Whores weren’t supposed to fraternise with each other, but she didn’t care and he didn’t seem to either. And as long as they brought in the money, she assumed Baelish would turn a blind eye.

“Kiss me,” she begged, unsure that he would.

It felt too close, too intimate, but then his eyes were flashing and he took her mouth.

He kissed like he fucked—expertly, skilfully—and he tasted like wine and berries and smoke from the fire. He slid his tongue over her bottom lip and coaxed her mouth open. When their tongues connected, sliding hotly over each other, it sparked heat between her thighs.

She grasped his bottom lip between her teeth and gave it a tug, revelling at the little groan he released into her mouth.

“Touch your tits,” he broke away to growl, “get your nipples nice and tight so I can suck them.”

He had slipped into teacher mode again and she would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t so aroused. Her fingers tugged at her rosy nipples until they were hard peaks. He sat up, his arms wrapped around her, and took one in his mouth.

She moaned, tipping her head back as he rolled it between his teeth. He grunted into her breast, his tongue flicking it before he sucked it into his mouth. He moved to the other one, giving it the same treatment, and she felt that familiar pressure build in the pit of her stomach.

He must have been close too because he began muttering in her ear, losing grasp on his ironclad control.

“Gods, your cunt feels perfect,” he bit out a groan into her hair, “always so tight and hot and wet for me. I want to feel you come. That’s it, come for me, Dany. Come on my cock.”

She obeyed instantly, fucking herself harder on him until she exploded. Her channel pulsed around him, a tightness that made him groan, and she flooded his length with a gush of wetness.

Once she had come back down to earth, she could tell he was close. His jaw was clenched, his eyes wild, and she knew how to push him over.

“Where do you want to come?” she asked, her tone low and sultry, “my tits, my face?”

He growled, his top lip curling before he lifted her off him and pushed them off the bed.

“Give me your mouth,” he ordered as he stood and she settled on her knees.

Sometimes, in her dreams, she imagined him coming inside her cunt, flooding her womb with his seed. She imagined it dripping out of her, seeping onto her thighs. She liked the thought of being his completely, the image of him leaving her sprawled on his bed with a sore cunt pumped full of his cum. But what they were doing was dangerous enough, risking a babe, a bastard, would be very reckless indeed.

His cock bobbed infront of her, his length hard and beautiful and glistening wet with her cum. He stroked it a few times as the head nudged at her lips. She opened her mouth and took it inside, sucking it eagerly.

"Gods, look at you..." he muttered roughly, his hips rolling as he fucked her mouth, "...taking my cock so well. Such a good girl… my good little whore."

She moaned around him, the vibrations rippling along his length. She noticed that he’d called her _his_ and it made her hotter.

He was already close to the edge and it only took a minute or so before he erupted. He came with a grunt, his fingers buried in her hair as he held her head and made her swallow it. She’d been practicing and was proud of herself for only slightly gagging, her nails scraping the sensitive skin of his balls as he filled her mouth with hot cum.

She pulled back with a gasp, saliva dripping down her chin and from his cock. His breathing was heavier as his thumb swiped over the corner of her mouth and pushed inside, feeding her a drop she’d missed.

He smiled down at her, a slightly incredulous expression on his face.

“A professional, indeed,” he laughed.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys’ eyes widened as she practically leapt behind a curtain.

The portly man who had just walked in looked like anyone else. He had a belly that stretched too large for his shirt and an unkempt beard and selfishly, she was relieved when Baelish called Mhaegen over.

But then, Mhaegen was dropping into a curtsy and so was the boy who gave him his wine and Littlefinger was calling him _Robert._

He wasn’t like anyone else—he was Robert Baratheon.

A low, amused voice interrupted her terror.

“Why are you hiding from the king?”

She whipped round, slapping a hand over Jon’s mouth and walking him backwards into an empty room.

He smirked when she pulled the hand away.

“I mean, I’ve had a busy day…” he grabbed her by the waist and tugged her against his body, “…but I’ll give it a go.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing him away with a hand on his chest. He let himself be moved, stepping back from her.

His expression seemed to change when he noticed she was serious. His brows furrowed, his face softening. He looked almost… concerned.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently and suddenly she wanted to cry—because no-one had ever asked her that before.

She held it back. She tried to be strong but her history, her name… it felt like a millstone around her neck. She had to tell someone.

“If the king recognises me, he’ll kill me,” she said bluntly, emptily, “because Dany _is_ short for something. My name is Daenerys Targaryen and I’m one of the two remaining dragons.”

He blinked, cocking his head to the side. When he finally did speak, he didn’t sound shaken.

“So you really are a princess,” is all he said.

She stared at him, exhaling incredulously at his casual expression.

“No-one can know. Not Robb, not Littlefinger and certainly not Robert Baratheon.”

Jon clicked his tongue, shrugging slightly.

“I hate to break it to you, but Baelish probably knows. He knows everything. He’s probably scheming right now, working out how to use it for his advantage.”

Daenerys had considered this possibility, but she didn’t like it, her blood turning cold.

“Sometimes…” she started, already kicking herself for how foolish she’d sound, “I dream about taking back my family’s throne. I dream of making them all pay.”

“You should do it,” Jon said like it was easy.

She scoffed.

“In Pentos, I was a slave. Used for my name,” she said, “here, I’m a whore so still hardly free. The Iron Throne is very far away.”

“But you’re _not_ a slave or a whore,” he argued, taking a step towards her, “you’re a queen.”

She listened. She liked how that sounded.

Her anger flared at the notion that he might be mocking her.

“What would you know of it?”

But he _wasn’t_ mocking her—and he twirled a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Nothing,” he admitted, “I _am_ just a whore… but I think I would like to be your king.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry.

“You cannot be a king,” she whispered as he leaned in and she felt him, all ale and smoke and masculine energy, “a king is above a queen and I don’t intend to be second best. A king worships nothing.”

“Aye, alright,” he chuckled before he dropped to his knees, his hands curling around the backs of her thighs. She gasped as his nose nudged at her robe, at the apex of her thighs. His smirk was positively wolfish as he glanced up at her. “I’ll worship at your cunt instead.”

She bit her bottom lip as he tore the robe away. His hot tongue slid up her slit as he showed her just why they all told stories about his mouth.

She wrapped her fingers in his curls and leaned her head back, thinking how sweet it would be to win her throne back one day.

Having him by her side would make it sweeter still.


End file.
